


If I Don't Say It Then It Can't Be True

by paperclipbitch



Category: Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: Angst, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Gen, Intermission, Vomiting, awful relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He scrapes up a smile, but Glinda thinks that maybe it’s not actually for <i>her</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Don't Say It Then It Can't Be True

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on LJ June 2008] Set in between _Defying Gravity_ and _Thank Goodness_ \- i.e in the interval/intermission. Angsty as all hell, obvs.

Smoke pours past the train windows and Glinda gazes out at the grey. It matches her mood perfectly, and she twists her hands together in her lap. The Wizard and Madam Morrible spent a very long time speaking with voices that were meant to be kind and weren’t at all, and she knows now that she must keep her mouth shut. She bites her tongue for a while, and then, with over an hour until the train pulls in at Shiz station, she gets her writing paper out of her bag and attempts to at least draft a letter home.

She’s not entirely sure how she’s going to say that she changed her _name_ in order to attempt to impress her kind of boyfriend and her best friend, who, incidentally, is now a wanted fugitive. It doesn’t sound good whichever way she puts it, and of course father is going to be dreadfully upset; Galinda is a family name, of course. She’ll just have to put a _sparkle_ on it and hope for the best. Maybe she’ll deliver the news next time she’s at home, when a winning smile and a bat of her eyelashes might just see her through.

It’s not that Glinda doesn’t have integrity, far from it. It’s just that things are prettier when you don’t think too much about them.

Even in first class, the train carriage floor is dirty and she has a smudge on one of her shoes. Glinda lets the sheets of pink writing paper slide off her lap and looks at the black mark smeared on the toe of her precious shoe until her eyes blur. She fumbles in her bag for her green-tinted spectacles and puts them on, staring fixedly at the now emerald-coloured smoke puffing past the window. 

Her lips are white.

+

Her case bumps against her legs. So far, eight young men of varying degrees of _handsome_ have offered to carry it for her, but she can’t face being bright and charming. She’ll take the bruises and be grateful for them.

Behind her, a Shiz station porter wheels a trolley piled high with her purchases. Elphaba had agreed to going into a maximum of five shops with Glinda when they were excitedly dashing around the Emerald City, and she’s got pretty striped boxes with ribbons and strings and three days ago they were her lot in life: everything she wanted. But one of the boxes has this really lovely dress in it, picked out in a shade of blue that wouldn’t clash with Elphaba’s skin tone. It was going to be a celebratory present, a gift for the inevitable party when Elphaba joined the Wizard.

It’s going to stay, cursed, in its tissue paper, because Glinda doesn’t have the power to throw it away but she can hardly pass it on to Elphie _now_.

At the end of the platform Fiyero is waiting, looking dashing in crimson, though his eyes are surrounded by dark. Funny, he used to deal with sleep deprivation so much better; perhaps anxiety has a different effect to partying. He scrapes up a smile, but Glinda thinks that maybe it’s not actually for _her_.

“I’m tired,” she tells him, and won’t let him take her suitcase from her. She bangs it against her knee as she walks past him, so she won’t have to watch him staring hopefully behind her into the smoky station. No one’s coming. 

+

Fiyero has a carriage waiting outside, and they watch the porter pile the boxes into it. Glinda doesn’t want _any_ of it, not really, but one day this might stop hurting and then one day she might want the shoes or the hats or something. Hopefully. Anyway, she’s got pretend that it’s all fine because if she admits _anything_ … The Wizard and Madame Morrible left it ambiguous but even though she has little imagination Glinda can picture all sorts of horrors anyway.

“They’re saying so many things,” Fiyero tells her, sat opposite her inside when they’re on their way back to the university. Glinda looks down at her shoes. “They’re saying Elphaba tried to attack the Wizard, that she’s evil.”

Glinda wants to plead a headache or something but at least she’s still wearing her Emerald City glasses which hide her filling eyes. She _can’t_ tell Fiyero, she _can’t_ tell anyone.

She says nothing, lying against the seat like a crushed flower petal. She’s weak and she knows it and she doesn’t know how to fit recent events into her head. 

“Nessarose is frantic,” Fiyero continues. “Will you tell her if you won’t tell me?”

Glinda curls her fingers into a fist, bunching up her once-pretty dress. “ _Please_ ,” she whispers.

There’s silence.

+

Madame Morrible invites her for tea when she gets back to the university, as though they haven’t spent the last three days in the Emerald City trying to outstare each other.

“You must be tired, child,” she announces, sweeping Glinda past Fiyero and the apologetic look is lost behind her souvenir glasses.

The tea is too sweet and the china is so delicate that Glinda can see right through it. She taps her finger against the cup, noticing a broken nail, split in the attic of the Wizard’s palace when she made her decision. She’s a little ashamed, but not enough to turn away. 

Madame Morrible says nothing because there is nothing left to say. The threats have been issued and Glinda is too quiet. She doesn’t know what she is going to do about Nessarose and Fiyero and the other students, who will inevitably have questions and accusing _but you were her roommate Glinda, are you sure you’re not like her?_ Perhaps she should have kept her distance – though that thought feels like betrayal and she lets it go immediately.

“It will get easier,” Madame Morrible informs her quietly, though her voice is hard and cold and unsympathetic. “Galinda, it _will_ be less difficult.”

She gets to her feet. “Actually, it’s _Glinda_ now,” she corrects, the teacup shattering on the carpet, and she runs.

She throws up bile and sour tea into a rosebush outside. It doesn’t help.

+

“We used to be _fun_ ,” Glinda observes. She hasn’t left her room in days but for an occasional stagger to the bathroom, and she’s still in the now-tattered yellow dress she took with her to the Emerald City. Her room – the private suite she always wanted, because Elphaba is gone – is full of unopened boxes. The curtains are drawn, stray traces of sunlight filter through the gap and sparkle off her shoe collection and jewellery.

Fiyero lies on Elphaba’s bed and looks at her without saying anything. He might be being supportive – after all, they’re both new at this actual _caring_ thing – but Glinda isn’t sure what she wants at the moment.

“You should talk to someone,” he says.

“Yes,” she snaps, and she’s tired and bitter and the world was meant to be _shinier_ than this, “I could talk to someone and then we could _all_ go on the run with Elphaba and it’ll be just like a _party_.”

Fiyero is quiet, dark eyes boring into her face. “They’re saying she can fly,” he offers.

Glinda rolls onto her back and stares at the darkened ceiling for a while. “She can,” she murmurs at last. “And that’s _all_ you’re getting.”

“For now,” he says.

+

It’s a week, and it’s morning, and Fiyero comes to wake her with coffee in a cup and a grim smile.

“Madame Morrible is _worried_ about you,” he says. His shrouded eyes indicate that he understands at least some of those implications. “She wants to see you at the dining tables at lunchtime.”

“Perfect,” Glinda murmurs, and hides her head beneath the pillow.

He’s strong, peeling away the covers and dragging her to her feet. Her hair is so lank it’s nearly unbearable and her dirty dress clings to her skin. She doesn’t feel like herself. She doesn’t feel like _anyone_. Fiyero’s hands are warm, curled around her arms, and she wants to sink into that warmth and hide from everything else. Everything that she knows and everything that she hasn’t done.

Glinda shuts her eyes when Fiyero reaches for the buttons of her dress, until it falls easily down her body to pool at her feet. Somehow, she thought that the first time he saw her naked would involve, _you_ know, candles and flower petals and so on. But she’s dirty and shivering and frightened and it wasn’t meant to happen like this.

“We’ll give her what she wants,” Fiyero says, voice a soft rumble, wrapping her up in one of her silky robes and tying it safe. “Now let’s take you for a bath.”

Glinda follows him like a child, head bowed.

+

At lunchtime, she _sparkles_ in white (for redemption and purity; oh the _lies_ ), diamonds papa gave her last summer wound around her throat like a noose. Her dress is for garden parties and dancing, not lunchtime at university, but she has a point to prove. She is charming and grins with plenty of teeth and the heels of her shoes are too high. Glinda claims an illness and makes demonstrative faces and laughs with her fellow students like she did in the days _before_ Elphaba and integrity.

Madam Morrible raises a crystal wineglass from the head table and sips blood-coloured liquid in a silent toast to the choice Glinda has apparently made. Fiyero’s fingers skim her knee under the table when she shivers a little.

“I have no choice,” she murmurs, leaving the hall with him, the food already acidic in her stomach.

“There’s always a choice,” he replies, sounding so unlike the Fiyero she first met that it nearly scares her.

Glinda leans her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. “I’m not Elphaba,” she says. “I _can’t_ make that choice, and it’s _killing me_.”

They pass into the early afternoon sunlight. Nothing but sunlight in Shiz these days; Madame Morrible has seen to that. It feels like a curse.

“It will get easier,” Fiyero offers. 

This time, she throws up on some daffodils.

+

Finally, the truth falls out. It had to; Glinda can’t keep smiling that glassy smile and pretending that it’s all fine, and Fiyero sleeps at the back of glasses and still takes her to the Ozdust Ballroom once a week and they fake it so hard that it hurts. In the end, they curl on the floor under Glinda’s bed, and she whispers in his ear, what really happened. What the Wizard made Elphaba _do_ , what he’s doing to Oz, what Elphaba decided. And how Glinda hung back, a guard’s thick fingers digging into her arm, watching her friend vanish into the night sky.

“Did I make the wrong choice?” she asks. “Should I have gone with her?”

Fiyero stares at her for a long time, so long that Glinda begins to panic low in her stomach.

“No,” he replies softly. They both know Glinda’s limitations and what could and could not have been feasible.

“I’m so scared,” she admits, knotting a hand in the back of his hair. In response, Fiyero covers her mouth with his, and the wooden floor is hard against her spine.

Later, Glinda bumps her head against the leg of her bed. Twice.

+

Nessarose has a letter crumpled in her lap. 

“My father’s dying,” she says flatly. 

Glinda taps one pink shoe against the carpet and tries to think of something substantial to say.

“I’m sorry,” she replies.

The room is full of boxes, Nessa’s belongings packed up ready to be sent back to Munchkinland. Her dark eyelashes brush her cheeks when she blinks, looking down at the paper again.

“He won’t say it, but it’s because of Elphaba,” Nessa says, and then fixes Glinda with a sharp stare. “She’s brought shame on our family. But you were _there_ , weren’t you?” Her eyes are pleading, _tell me it’s a misunderstanding_. Glinda swallows and her throat stings. There’s truth, but it’s too late for Nessa’s father. And she doesn’t think it will help.

“The Wizard has declared her an enemy of Oz,” Glinda murmurs.

“Yes.” Nessa’s smile is nauseous, and her hands fall to the wheels of her chair, turning away. Her carriage will be here in a matter of minutes; when her father succumbs, Nessa will be mayor of Munchkinland. She looks too young.

“I’ll miss you,” Glinda promises, and: “I’ll visit.”

She presses kisses to Nessa’s wet cheeks, keeping her pure smile on her face. In the corner of the room, Boq waits, cases packed beside him. His eyes are accusing on Glinda’s back, but she’s already got enough guilt, and she doesn’t turn around.

+

One month, Glinda turns around to find a winged monkey sitting on her windowsill. It cocks its head, and makes a confused chattering sound. She’s about to go over and ask it to speak, to apologise for what Elphie did because she knows it honestly wasn’t _meant_ to happen like this, but then she remembers _spies_ and stays where she is.

She grins a perfect porcelain smile with all her teeth, and waves with a wiggle of her fingers. She wants a good report, she wants the Wizard to know she’s playing the game. She’s _obedient_ , obviously.

The monkey narrows shrewd eyes at her, and Glinda suppresses a shudder. It’s not the monkey’s fault, it’s honestly not. Finally, it turns, and flies away. Glinda hurries over to the window and draws the curtains, before her legs give out beneath her. She bangs her head on the windowsill, and throws up into an empty hatbox.

+

Her petticoats rustle around her as she walks out of the Ozdust Ballroom. Behind her, music plays and people laugh. They’re scared, of course, but there’s still the thrill of: _I went to school with the Wicked Witch of the West_. 

Fiyero has alcohol, and a tired expression. Glinda sits beside him on the steps, declining the drink. He smiles, lips crooked, but doesn’t take his eyes off the sky.

“She won’t be here,” Glinda tells him. “She’s _hiding_. She’s not _stupid_ , Fiyero.”

“Not like us,” he replies, finally looking at her.

“We’re _shrewd_ ,” Glinda reminds him. 

“We’re selfish,” Fiyero mutters. “We could give all this up, but we won’t. We know things are happening that shouldn’t be happening and we know who’s responsible, and we won’t do anything.”

“What _could_ we do?” Glinda demands. She doesn’t get an answer, and she isn’t expecting one. Fiyero sighs into his glass, and then his head tips back and he gazes into the sky again.

“Elphaba’s _gone_!” Glinda shrieks, voice too shrill in her anger.

She thinks that the rustle of wings in the sky is probably her imagination, but just in case it’s not, she gathers her ridiculously puffy skirts around her and runs, losing a shoe in the street but not slowing down. There’s a punishment for saying _Elphaba_ these days. Not that many people know that their green-skinned enemy actually has a name.

+

“It can’t _stay_ like this,” Fiyero decides.

Glinda is folding clothes. There are at least six girls who are various kinds of _sycophantic_ who would fold them for her, but sometimes it’s easier to just do it herself. To let the smile slip off for an hour or so.

“So we choose,” she says, although _we_ sounds strange and tastes sharp on her tongue. She and Fiyero aren’t a _we_ ; they think too hard to be the perfect pair they were a few scant months ago. Before the world turned upside down and inside out and left them breathless. Still, there’s an unspoken agreement that they’re in _this_ together, for whatever their reasons.

“Our options aren’t great,” Fiyero murmurs. He’s packing her shoes into boxes, wrapping each pair carefully before putting it away. His own packing won’t take long, and sometimes Glinda wonders why this is the one school that managed to _stick_. 

Their options: leave the safety of their way of life and become enemies of Oz, trying to evade capture and helping Animals that they never really cared for in the first place; or play along with the corrupt regime and try to calm down the civil panic a little. At least with the second option Glinda can return home for birthdays.

“They’re just _Animals_ ,” she says weakly, knowing that sooner or later she’ll forget the pain on the monkeys’ faces when Elphaba gave them wings, she’ll forget Doctor Dillamond (though never his way of saying her name; it’s _almost_ a tribute). 

“The baby lioncub-” Fiyero begins, and then crumples. He’s not strong enough either. “We’ll play along,” he decides firmly.

“You never know,” Glinda suggests, “Maybe we’ll be able to _help_ her.”

“Yes,” Fiyero agrees hollowly.

Neither of them actually _believe_ it.

+

Her diploma crinkles in her hand, and Glinda is the only girl with jewels trimming her graduation gown. Her hair curls around her shoulders and she gives a speech, grinning with joy she doesn’t quite feel and promising her now-former classmates that their futures are laid out in front of them, shining and bright and new. About halfway through, she starts to sort of believe it. It’s strange: she never saw herself as a motivational speaker, but the crowd is hanging onto her words.

Later, the roof of the hall bursts off, but no one’s hurt ( _hello Elphie; it’s about time you made it_ ), and Glinda restores the peace with a few well-chosen sentences and a suggestion that they all sing the school song for a while. For old times’ sake and all. Fiyero smiles proudly or maybe cynically, and they dance together like the perfect couple they were _meant_ to be.

“The Wizard wants to meet you,” Madame Morrible whispers to her later. “I believe you could be destined for _great things_.”

They’re Elphaba’s great things and not Glinda’s, but she kind of wants them anyway, so she nods with a smile. 

“I’m honoured,” she says, and for once it’s not a lie.

+

They’re given a lovely (green) house in the Emerald City, where Fiyero joins the guard and looks dashing in a gold (and green) uniform. They attend the fanciest parties and all sorts of balls and so many rumours are spread that it’s impossible to tell if Elphaba is doing anything _at all_ or if she’s actually bringing Oz to the point of ruin. Glinda clings to the side she’s chosen because it’s that or nothing, but even she doesn’t know what’s going on.

One morning, she sees a green girl in the mirror and screams, until she realises that it’s just the (green) stained-glass windows casting shadows over her skin. And then she’s ashamed for screaming, because she’s not _afraid_ of Elphaba. She’s honestly _not_.

Most days, she can bask in her lifestyle and not think about the (green) woman she stole it from, and Fiyero seems attentive and charming and sweet, and he spends long periods of time searching parts of the land where Elphaba almost certainly isn’t. It’s a life and sometimes she can lie to herself and convince herself that she made the right decision.

+

Fiyero is home for a late summer ball, tall and splendid in his army uniform. Promotions rain down on him although he never seems to achieve anything; not that Glinda will ever point that out. It’s good that he doesn’t achieve anything. She still catches him watching the sky sometimes, but then she does that too when she’s alone. It’s impossible to forget their friend when the whole land is full of _kill her before she kills you_ and they can’t admit the truth without being killed themselves.

She’s meant to be _forgetting_ that.

Hands cover her eyes. “Guess who?”

Glinda laughs. “Fiyero!” 

She turns in the loop of his arms, and he presses a kiss to her mouth. She’s resplendent in lilac and amethysts, coils of blonde hair against her bare shoulders. A girl can’t do pink _every_ party, after all.

“I’m happy,” she murmurs, though she certainly didn’t mean to admit that. Slowly, as time passes, _happiness_ starts feeling less like a sin. That makes it worse.

“Are you?” Fiyero arches an eyebrow. He still looks boyish and beautiful, though with a new tightness to the corners of his mouth and shadows skimming beneath his eyes.

“Yes.” Glinda smiles a little hesitantly, fingers spread on the sleeves of his uniform.

“Then I am too.” The right words, the right tone, the right kiss to follow up the statement.

If only it were all that simple.

+

Madame Morrible glitters more every time Glinda sees her, brittle and bright as she leaches away things like _democracy_ and _freedom of speech_. Glinda just turns her face away from _that_ truth. She takes another sip of punch, though she probably shouldn’t, and it churns beneath her ballgown.

“You look _ravishing_ , my dear,” Madame Morrible announces loudly, pressing dry lips to Glinda’s cheek. Glinda strains out a smile, and then freezes as she continues right into Glinda’s ear: “I _told_ you that it would get easier.”

Bile rises in her throat, but her days of vomiting into bushes and boxes have passed along with the majority of the guilt and uncertainty. Glinda is a _woman_ now, or something very much like it. She smiles, though it’s brittle and likely to snap any moment.

“One truth amongst a hundred lies doesn’t redeem you, Madame,” Glinda murmurs, straining against her mental bonds for a moment, and strides away from the refreshments. It feels good to rebel, even if it is entirely useless.

That night, she curls her fingers in Fiyero’s shirt and cries for the first time. She thinks that he might be crying too, but she doesn’t look up to check, and his gold braid is cool against her cheek. 

+


End file.
